


Drive (My Heart) Like You Stole It

by rowan_elizabeth



Category: Sing Street (2016)
Genre: A bit sad, And a happy ending, Angst, Drinking and Smoking, Future Fic, M/M, and suicide, fluffy tho, mentions of depression, things aren't great
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 08:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11399340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowan_elizabeth/pseuds/rowan_elizabeth
Summary: Conor Cosmo has become an international music sensation but at a price. His relationship with Raphina is falling a part and when his brother calls to tell him their father has passed, things just could not have gotten much worse.He goes home and everything has changed, himself included. He's no more the soft and awkward boy that he had been and Dublin isn't quite ready for it.Then Conor meets Eamon and things.... Aren't so different.





	1. I

When they took his grandfather’s old boat to London, there hadn’t been a single doubt in his mind that they could make it work. Raphina would make it as a model. He would make it as a musician. They would be together, forever. It was their destiny. It would be perfect and amazing, no one could stop them. End of the fucking story. Fuck his parents. Fuck Brother Baxter. Fuck Dublin. They would make it because they were well… They were them. Conor and Raphina. If anyone could, it would be them. If Conor knew nothing else, it was that they would make it.

But the first time Raphina walked out on him (over something stupid like he forgot to get milk or whatever) every doubt he had been repressing, ignoring and refusing to have for the past eighteen months came flooding back to him.  
He was a bag boy at the local Quickie-Mart, playing his guitar on the street corner on the weekends for pocket money, every pound he made during the week going to pay their rent. Raphina was a secretary at some bank during the week and on Sunday, she went around to modeling companies trying to get a gig. Her earnings went to groceries and paying the other bills. It was a shit life, Conor realized as he sat on their shit couch in their shit flat. They lived paycheck to paycheck with no end in sight. Playing street corners and open mics wasn’t going to make him the new Duran Duran. Sunday walk-in interviews weren’t going to get Raphina on the cover of Vogue. He held his head in his hands and gasped for breath, praying to a God he didn’t believe in for a second chance.  
Raphie came back an hour or two later and they cried for a while before sniffling, promising each other that they would be okay. They kissed until their lips bruised. When they laid together, clothes forgotten on the beat-up wooden floors, sweaty bodies pressed together under the sheets bought at a sketchy pound shop, Conor tried to convince himself it would be fine. That they were fine. It was a rough patch, every couple had them. But not every couple was struggling to pay their rent, still under the age of twenty, and forsaking meals when money was tight, said the voice in the back of his mind. He shook his head and pressed a kiss to Raphina's sleeping forehead, pulling her sleeping body closer to his and swearing to himself that they would make it.

Nobody came to visit. Perhaps that’s what wore on Conor the most during those first few years. Brendan didn’t visit, didn’t write or call after the first night. Neither did mam or dad, or Eamon. Raphina said it was okay, that they didn’t need anybody else. But she had been on her own before. It was a dreary existence. Making friends was hard in London, especially when everyone around you seemed older, smarter, and better than you. Not to mention that whenever you told them your story, they’d give you their look of absolute pity and say, “well, that’s nice.”  
It wears on you.

It wouldn’t be until a chilly, November evening almost three years since he had gotten to London that things would change. He was crouched on the street corner with an unlit cig between his lips packing up his guitar when a man who had been watching him play for a couple songs finally spoke up,  
“Need a light, mate?” Asked a man behind him. Conor turned and nodded,  
“Yeah, thanks,”  
“Sure,” he was English, maybe from Cornwall or something. Conor was getting better at recognizing accents as his own stupid accent had finally begun to fade.  
“Heard you singin’, you’re pretty good.”  
“Thanks, used to be in a band a while back, that was one of our firsts.”  
“Breakup?”  
“Sorry?”  
“With the band, did you break up? Decide to go solo?” Conor drew in a deep breath of smoke and leaned back against the street lamp. He imagined he might look quite cool, quite badass in the dim lighting, his overcoat, hat, guitar case and cig. Darren might have wanted it to be the cover of their next album, something with a more melancholy feel, something a little more grown up, a little less happy-sad, a little more sad-sad. Raphie would have love it.  
“Nah, not officially anyway. Me and my girlfriend left to come to London back in ‘85. Had to get outta Dublin, she’s gonna be a model, I’m gonna be a musician.”  
“Harder than expected?”  
“You’re telling me. It’s gonna be three years at the Quickie-Mart come this coming April.” The stranger snorted and shook his head.  
“Glamorous.”  
“I know,” They lapsed into silence for awhile, and Conor tried to decide whether it would be rude to leave or not.  
“Listen, I’m a disk jockey at a local radio station. I want you to come in and sing sometime. I know it sounds fake, like a scam but I think you’ve got something special, kid.”  
“I’m not a kid,”  
“Yeah, you are. Barely got a rind on you, and it’s not an insult. It’s good, hold on to that, yeah? I wanna help you out, mate. I think people need to hear what you have to say.”  
“This is a sick joke, mate,”  
“Look if you change your mind, gimme a ring, right? Here take my card,” The man shoved a small piece of cardstock into Conor’s pale hand and flipped up his collar. “I like you, mate. I think you’ve got a good sound. Futuristic, like. Call me up if you want a shot with the big boys, maybe take a break from the Quickie-Mart, eh? Night, mate.” He walked off, the street lamp making cool, mysterious shadows against his trench coat. Could be the back cover for the melancholy album. Conor shoved the card inside his pocket and stubbed out his cig against the lamp post before storming back to his flat. 

“You’re home late, Cosmo,” Raphie said as he entered the flat, and bolted the door. She was on the couch, watching something on the Telly a cig in her hand, a glass in the other.  
“Yeah, ran into someone.”  
“What? Are you alright?” She sat up, her attention on him rather than the at home shopping channel. Sometimes, Conor remembered the first time he saw her and how he couldn’t place her eyes. They looked so familiar but at the same time so foreign, so shrouded in mystery. In time, he came to know her eyes well. Sometimes though, they still seemed a bit off and he felt his heart drop into his stomach.  
He liked to think that he had come to know her inside and out, but at times, when they fought, when she ran away, when she drank or got panicky, he couldn’t help as though to feel like he really didn’t know her at all. He would remember when she had deflected all of his questions in an attempt to get to know her better. How do you take your tea? What was the girl’s home like? Do you miss Dubin? Anything to get to know her on any sort of level had been pushed off. After awhile, he stopped trying. It was moments like these when he remembered that he really didn’t know Raphie well and it made all of his boyish fears surge up inside him.  
Right then, her eyes looked worried, yes. But on a deeper level, they were blank, sort of shallow, like looking at yourself in the mirror; it’s you, everything seems right except for when you look in your own eyes, it doesn’t seem quite there. It’s a little dimmer than in person. A little more distant, like looking at a photograph.  
Conor shook his head.  
“Yeah, nothing like that. He was a joke, said he was a DJ, wanted me to sing for ‘em,”  
“And?” She asked taking a sip of her drink, her attention flickering.  
“A joke, obviously. A scam.”  
“Doesn’t sound like it.” She said with half conviction. He rolled his eyes and tossed her his card while kicking off his sneakers and sitting down on the lumpy sofa. She placed her feet in his lap, reading the card and taking a long drag of her cig.  
“Conor,” Raphie said looking up, her attention returning. “This isn’t a scam. You have to call him. I listen to this guy every morning. I know this station, you have to go in.” He sighed and pushed his hair out of his eyes. His mother would be furious if she saw how long it had gotten.  
“No, love. Anyone can make a fake card, I doubt that’s really him.”  
“So? And if it’s not, where’s the harm in seeing him?”  
“Because it’ll just be another let down, Raphie. I’m tired of being let down, aren’t you?” She shook her head and took her tiny little feet from his lap, her attention gone for good. Fantastic.  
“Whatever you say, Conor.”  
They didn’t speak for the rest of the night.

The next morning after Raphie left for work, kissing his cheek in passing, Conor dug the card out of the trash where he had thrown it last night and sat in front of their phone, contemplating. Fuck it, he thought finally dialing the number.  
“Yop,” came a voice on the other line.  
“Erm, Mr. Bates? This is Conor Lawlor, you gave me your card last night.”  
“Oh yeah, the kid who wasn’t a kid. I remember you. What can I do you for?”  
“I’d like to meet with ya,” the man on the other end snorted.  
“Yeah alright, come by today at noon.”  
“I’m working today.”  
“Right, so I’ll see you at noon. Cheers.”  
Conor stared at the phone as it went dead and chuckled to himself. What a fucker.

That day he went into the office and played a slower version of Beautiful Sea for a big man in a wheel-around chair with a cigar in his lips and Simon Bates. He had no expectations for the meeting and honestly just wanted to get back to his lunch back at the Quickie-Mart. The big man mumbled something to Mr. Bates after he was done and left without a word to Conor. Mr. Bates shook his hand and said he’d give him a call. Conor forced a smile, grabbed his guitar case and left without feeling even slightly disappointed.  
That night as he sat at the table doing the numbers for that month’s rent, the phone rang and Raphina picked it up.  
“Yes?” She nodded, Conor watching her from the kitchen table. She was barefaced today. It was a look he liked very much. Her pale Irish skin and her deep colored eyes. No foundation to make her skin look fake or makeup around her eyes to make them look “better”.  
“I’ll put ‘em on, yeah.” She handed him the phone and mouthed, Told you so, before going back to the Telly.  
“Conor Lawlor.”  
“Hi, Con? This is Simon. Look we played back your recording to the board and they want you to come in next week for a song or two on the morning show. They liked you well enough, but they think you need some more personality so they’ll put ya on the morning show as a test run, alright? If the audience likes you, we’ll hook you up with a recording studio we partner with and get you making tracks we and other stations can air.”  
“Er, beg your pardon but, are you having a go at me, Mr. Bates?” The man laughed on the other end and Raphina sent him a murderous glare from the other room. He pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyelids and sighed.  
“Hardly, Con.”  
“Don’t call me that,” he mumbled.  
“Fine, I’ll call you Conor if you’ll come in and play, alright?”  
“Yeah, right. When?”  
“Friday morning, six o’clock.” Conor shook his head.  
“I’m working.”  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Conor. Either take this seriously or not at all. I believe in you. Fuck the Quickie-Mart, mate. I thought you were gonna be a musician.”  
“Well, I can’t rightly quit,”  
“‘Course you can. You just have to want it bad enough. I’ll see you Friday if you’re ready to take your life seriously, Conor.” He hung up and Conor went to bed. Raphina slept on the couch that night and didn’t kiss him good-bye the next morning.

In six months, Conor Cosmo was placing well into England’s Top 100 chart. His singles Lonely Outpost and Say Anything were playing on just about every station. He quit the Quickie-Mart on the third anniversary of his working there and released his first record, Letters To Dublin, the next week. It was good.  
They had a new, better flat with a less lumpy couch and less beat-up floors. They had money to go to the cinemas on Fridays and Raphina got a steady gig as a makeup model. She was loving being Conor Cosmo’s girlfriend more than he was loving being Conor Cosmo. Where the limelight flattered her, it hurt his eyes. Where she basked in camera flashed and news articles, he ducked and covered. He struggled at first with these changes to Raphina, to their relationship, and to himself, but he began to accept them. Afterall, if she was happy, who was he to complain? She lived for the attention and if she was smiling he could make do. But she soared and he began to crash. Their spark began to smother. He found out rather quickly that he was not meant for fame, but fame had made him his new companion and wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon. And with it, came a very bitter end to the illusion he had been living under for a decade.  
It was about eight years into his relationship with fame when Conor slowly began noticing how much things had truly changed. He had more friends now more than ever in his life. He had more fan mail than ever before. He had never had so many pictures taken of himself and had never had so many people stop him on the streets and ask, “aren’t you Conor Cosmo?” It was fine, he didn’t mind it. Not at first anyway. But when Raphina’s eyes were no longer familiar, his entire world began to reel.  
Over time, when she would look at him, his heart would sputter. Her look began to bare striking resemblance to how his mother had regarded his father in ‘85. He noticed how many empty boxes of cigarettes lay in the bin and how many empty bottles had begun to line the counter tops. He noticed her late nights, how she didn’t call him Cosmo anymore and how she flinched at his touch. This realization was sudden and painful. When the full force of this wave finally passed, Conor set out to make it right. Immediately. None of the bullshit he was struggling with would mean anything if he didn’t have her.  
He began calling her from work, asking how her day was. He left her her love letters and took her to dinner three nights a week. On the way home from work one day, he bought her a rose and planned to take her to dinner and propose to her. He figured his methods had been working well enough and this, a diamond ring and the promise of forever, would seal the deal and soothe his panicked attempts to heal what had been fractured.  
Only he didn’t know just how badly they had broken.  
“Raphina? Are you home?” There was a resounding crash from their bedroom followed by a string of abrasive language. Fear struck his heart and he bolted to their room, thinking that someone had gotten into the flat (fucking paparazzi or crazed groupies again, he thought) and threw open their bedroom door to see Raphina shoving a man, no not just any man but Simon Bates, into their closet. A half naked Simon Bates. His half naked boss. Conor stood with his mouth open slightly, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.  
“I’m sorry?” He said lamely.  
“Darling, I thought you weren’t meant to be home until later.” She gasped, still pushing Simon’s clothes into his arms, sending Conor her brightest, fakest smile.  
“Yeah, erm. I thought I’d take you for a surprise dinner and…. I’m sorry what the fuck is going on?” He asked his brain finally processing the scene before him. Raphie sighed and rolled her eyes.  
“Take a guess, Conor. Really.” All falseness in her voice faded and her eyes became unbearably unreachable.  
“How long?” He murmured,  
“Con, mate. I’m so sorry, look-”  
“I said how long?” Conor shouted, Raphina flinched.  
“Close to- what? Six months?” He staggered against the doorframe.  
“Nine,” whispered Simon looking at Raphina in disbelief. As if he couldn’t see how she had forgotten. Little did he know just how cold she could be.  
“Jesus fuck,” Conor gasped, blinking rapidly.  
“Con, I’m sorry-”  
“Don’t fucking call me that.” He seethed, “Get out. Get out of my fucking house. Both of you. Get out!” He shrieked. Raphina walked coolly past him, her head held high and Simon staggered after her mumbling a weak apology. He slid down the wall, the rose he had brought home for Raphie in his hand, the little box burning a hole through his jacket. As he sat there shaking, all Conor could hear were waves crashing around his ears and the sea of naivety drowning him in realizations.  
The next day he threw the ring into the river and pressed the rose into her favorite book, tucking it into the very back of his closet under the box of her things that she never bothered to come home for.

Conor fell into bender that lasted for upwards of months as the tabloids began their skeptic prodding and invasive investigating.  
“New Wave Sensation Conor Cosmo’s girlfriend cheats on him with Radio Producer, Simon Bates” read the headlines for the shitty Pop News channel. Canor laughed maniacally and took another long drink from the bottle in his hand before launching it at the wall behind the Telly. The tabloids ate the story up, calling him “reckless” and “self-destructive”. A “drunk, washed-up musical genius” was his favorite description. Raphie and Simon came out as a couple saying that they were so thankful for Conor to have brought them together. So thankful in fact that Simon proposed to her and they were married a month later, nevermind that she would leave him three months after and flee to America. When asked for a statement on the Raphina scandal, Conor flipped off the camera and disappeared for three weeks to drink himself into a dangerous stupor.  
That July, he got his first phone call from Dublin.  
“What?” He snapped into the mouthpiece, his brain muddied with hangover being eased with more booze. It had been a particularly bad day.  
“Conor? It’s Brendan,” came a familiar voice. He closed his eyes and sighed,  
“It’s been- what? Eleven years? And now you call? What the fuck warranted me your so obviously precious time, Brendan?” He spat angrily. His brother was silent for a while.  
“Conor,” he said lowly.  
“What?”  
“You need to come home,”  
“What the fuck does that mean?”  
“Conor, you need to come home. It’s dad. He erm,” he cleared his throat, his voice shaking and breaking. Conor slowly sat up,  
“He’s what, Brendan? What’s wrong with dad?” After a very shaky inhale, he says,  
“He’s dead, Conor. On Friday. Aortic Aneurism, nobody knew. I’m really sorry to have to tell you like this. I’m so sorry Conor, but you have to come home. Please,” his brother gasped on the other end and Conor began nodding slowly, his voice suddenly gone.  
“Yeah,” he wheezed, “right. I’ll erm, I’ll fly in tomorrow. I… When’s the Wake?”  
“Wednesday,”  
“Right, I’ll be there. See you then,” he hung up without saying goodbye.  
He picked up the bottle next to him and took a deep drink, left his agent a voicemail telling her to book him a flight and drank till he passed out.


	2. II

For a long time, Conor stood in front of his father’s flat with his fist raised to knock. His hair was pulled up into a bun at the base of his head, his sunglasses on, even though it was raining, and his wool overcoat was drenched in familiar Irish downpour. He was shaking. Probably because the fucking flight attendant has refused to give him any booze because, “sir, it’s Sunday.” Right, like fucking Jesus hadn’t drank on Sundays, the man literally created wine from water.  
Finally, he pounded three quick thumps onto the wooden door and stepped away.   
There was a child standing in the doorway. A small girl with ponytails and a gray jumper.  
“Mam there’s a gutter junkie at the door!” She called loudly and Conor could have sworn his hangover was playing tricks on him. Did a fucking six year old just call him a druggie?  
“Darling, you can’t just- Oh. Conor,” came another familiar voice from the hall. Mid hand-wipe on a dish rag was Ann. The look she gave him was of absolutely heartbreak.  
She had been crying and Conor wasn’t helping. Not showing up like this anyhow.  
“This is your Uncle Conor. Conor, this is my daughter, Saorise, your niece,” Conor nodded and gave her a little, half attempted, salute.  
“Or you can just call me Uncle Gutter Junkie, if that suits you better,” the little girl giggled.  
“Beg your pardon, Uncle Conor,” he shook his head and moved inside.  
“Ann,” he breathed as she came forward, pressing her hands to her cheeks. She went to lift his glasses and he stopped her, “Don’t.” She nodded, fighting back tears.  
“It’s been so long,”  
“I’m sorry about dad,” he said. Which was odd, because he was his dad too, but for some reason, this felt very much more like it was her loss than his.  
“Me too, love.” She sniffled, “Come in, come in. Mam will want to see you.”  
“Where’s Brendan?”  
“Working, he’ll be home around dinner,”  
“Right.”   
He had never been in his father’s flat before, but somehow, it felt exactly how the other house had. The same couch was in the living room, the same pictures on the mantel, with some new additions. It smelled the same (herbs and linens) and sounded the same (kettle on, laundry going and the faint sound of pool playing on the telly). His mother was at the table holding hands with Tony, like he had seen her do so many times with his father. A baby was next to them, mashing around his baby food: his nephew. Conor’s mind swam a bit as he thought about just how much he had missed, just how different things were.  
“Mam, Conor’s home.”  
Home. Oddly enough, Conor didn’t feel home. He didn’t really feel home ever, anywhere nowadays. Not at his apartment or the studio… None of it.   
His mother leapt to her feet and flung herself around his neck, sobbing heavily. Conor stood there, motionless, his arms loosely held around her more out of reflex than anything. Tony looked at him in disapproval and Conor looked away quickly.  
“Oh, my son. I’ve missed you. You’ve grown so much!”  
He hadn’t really. Only a few inches, and his hair few out to his shoulders. He was more in shape now, not shredded but toned, he supposed. His accent was almost entirely gone. His fingers were calloused from playing guitar, his face more hollowed out. But when he looked in the mirror, Conor still saw the round faced fifteen-year-old who started a band to impress a girl.  
“I’ve missed you too, mum,” he said finally as she unwound herself from him.  
“What is this?” She gasped, pulling at his hair, he jerked back.  
“My hair, mum,” she tsked and he rolled his eyes behind the black glass.   
“Uncle Conor is a Gutter Junkie!” Came the shrill cry of Saorise behind him and he pursed his lips and Ann scolded her.  
“You’re what?”  
“No, mum, I’m not. The glasses ‘n all, it’s just been a hard couple of days. I’ll be fine after a shower and some rest,” she nodded suspiciously. Tony scoffed.  
“Yes, it has been a harsh few days,” her lip trembled and Tony reached up for her hand, pulling her away.  
“Why don’t you go take that shower and get some sleep, son. You’re upsetting your mother,” he said gruffly and Conor scoffed. Sure he was. It definitely wasn’t the death of her ex-husband. No, not at all.  
“Right, wake me up when Brendan gets home. Pleasure seeing you all,” he said quietly turning on his toe and heading up stairs to find the spare room that would have been his and the bathroom. Through the floor he could head his mother crying and hissing at Tony not to be rude and his sister scolding Saorise. Oddly enough, after years of longing to be home, he missed his lonely apartment more than he ever had before.

“Conor! Up, dinner,” came a sharp shout through his door. He sat up with a start, confused as to his surroundings.  
It wasn’t his childhood bedroom, but it was close. It seemed as though his father had packed up all of Conor’s belongings and put them back into a new room more or less in the same place they had been before he moved. It was endearing and oddly enough, the thought that his father had done all of this hurt more than the fact that his father was gone for good.   
“Conor!”  
“I’m coming, Ann, please,” he sighed pushing his hair into a shitty ponytail. He threw on some tight jeans (“they’re in fashion,” his costumer had insisted) and an old U2 shirt and washed his face, trying to look less hungover before traipsing down stairs.   
Where he expected to find his family was a much larger group of people. Brendan, Tony his mother, Ann and the children, yes. But also Darren, Ngig, Barry, Larry and Gary. All older, and different but also very much the same. They all had tea mugs in their hands and looked up when he entered.  
Fuck.  
“Erm, mum?” She turned from her place in front of the stove and grinned like she had given him the greatest Christmas gift ever. Little did she know, she had brought him his biggest fear: confrontation with what could have been and the letdown he had become.  
“Surprise! The old gang back together, well, ‘cept Eamon, but he should be over in a bit after work.” He glanced at the clock, nearly half past eighteen.   
“Great,” he said and hoped it didn’t sound too obviously annoyed. Brendan was the first to stand up, bracing him with a bone crushing hug.  
“You looked utterly fucked,” he whispered in his ear. Conor snorted, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff of annoyance.  
Then Darren, Larry and Gary, Ngig, and even Barry shook his hand.  
They all had the same look of awe, disappointment and something like sympathy in their faced. Tony stood at the door into the kitchen with frown creasing his forehead. Ann held the baby, leaning back against the fridge, and Saorise came up next to him and took his thumb in her hand, squeezing gently. Ann inhaled sharply, obviously not pleased with her precious daughter taking a liking to her train wreck uncle. If she didn’t mind, she would have told him when she was pregnant, told him when she had her first baby, not to mention her second one.  
“So erm, thanks for coming, I suppose,” he coughed, pulling his hand from Saorise’s to scratch the back of his neck.  
“Dinner’ll be up in a moment,” his mother said, still smiling.

Darren was working at the TV Station downtown and was married to Lucy from around the block. Gary was the manager of a grocery chain, still unmarried. Larry was a school therapist and his wife had died last year of cancer, leaving behind her husband and toddler son, Eddie. Gary was helping raise him. Barry worked in the government but wouldn’t say what he did specifically. He was married as of six years. Ngig was visiting from New York where he was a lawyer. He swore up and down that he had the most beautiful girlfriend and the most amazing almost-step-son. Brendan wasn’t married (didn’t wanna be) and owned a music shop in town.   
“What about you, mate?” Darren finally asked and the room went quiet. Conor set down his fork and nodded slowly. He wrung his hands under the table and stared at his plate.  
“Well, I’m er, working on my next album, I suppose. Not married or nothin, Raphina left me a while back,” he chuckled. And everyone looked solemn. “Look, I’m fine, guys. It’s been hard but that’s life in the big city. I’m fine, you can stop all looking at me like an old dog or-or like I’m gonna lash out any second.” He chuckled picking up his fork again and shoving a piece of pork into his mouth. Everyone looked away slowly.  
“What about Eamon?” He mumbled to break to silence.  
“He’s good, owns a little cafe in town, great pasties,” said Darren quietly. Everyone nodded in agreement.  
“Married and all that, no doubt?” Darren sent Larry a look he couldn’t place,  
“Not at all,” Conor smiled to himself for a second. He was probably still too kept up with his rabbits to be married.  
“Well, I for one can’t wait for your next album,” said Larry suddenly and the room agreed and went off into a discussion about his music and which songs they liked most and which albums were best. Conor sat in silence for upwards of half an hour before excusing himself to the front porch for a smoke.

It was an odd thing having your childhood friends discuss your music; your private diary that you put to music for a living. Darren preferred the love song on his first album. Larry and Gary both liked his third album the best because it was “raw”. Barry hadn’t had time to listen to any and Ngig liked his most recent album because it was more risque. While they talked, Conor had had the odd feeling of being an observer. He felt like his Nan’s old doll on the china chest getting a look into how people, real people, live their human lives. It was something he felt very removed from. Something he couldn’t relate to. Darren liked the love song because it reminded him of his wedding. Conor had written it about a couple he saw in the coffee shop and what he imagined what their lives were like. His mother liked his Letters to Dublin album because she liked the uilleann pipes, he hated uilleann pipes. But Simon had insisted on them to sell the record. Everything they spoke of felt superficial to him. He just couldn’t take it.  
“Isn’t it supposed to be your welcome home/sorry your da died party in there? Or do I have the wrong would-have-been home of a famous, trainwreck rock star?” Conor turned from his place on the deck to see a much more grown up and less awkward Eamon standing behind him with a bottle of wine in his hand. He had traded in his aviator glasses frames for turtleshell shaped ones. His hair, too, was longer (but still shorter than Conor’s) and pulled back in a loose ponytail. He wore a white t-shirt with a flannel under a jean jacket with ripped denim jeans. He had a lopsided grin on his face and one of his hands on his jaw as he observed Conor. He looked good. Like really good. Like he just stepped out of one of those John Hughes films as the new heartthrob only this one was set in Dublin, in the ‘90s. The London girls would have loved him.  
“Think you’ve got the right one, but Bono lives a couple doors down if that better fits your fancy.” Eamon laughed and Conor felt the warmest he had been since Raphina left, since he moved to England, if he was being honest.  
“Damn, must be that one then. Keep gettin’ you two mixed up,” Conor cracked a smile as Eamon came over to stand next to him. “It’s good to see you, Conor,” Conor shrugged.  
“You’re being polite, Eamon, it’s alright. Everyone in there is thinking it, too, just too nice to say it. ‘Cept maybe Tony. You don’t have to be nice to me, I know I’m a bit...” he faded off and cleared his throat. Eamon scoffed,  
“You’re wrong, Conor. I’ve missed you, even if you’re a little more…. Sharp then you used to be.” Eamon placed a cig between his lips and leaned down a bit for Conor to light it.  
“Sharp? What, like smart?” Conor said cocking an eyebrow and clicking the lighter. He watched as Eamon puffed a few breaths before inhaling deeply, looking up and blowing out a steady stream of smoke. Conor caught himself staring mouth open as Eamon’s throat worked and turned his whole body away. What the fuck?  
This wasn’t a new feeling, of course. Back in the ‘80s, when they would spend whole days together, Conor would let himself watch Eamon work, watch his fingers move across the piano keys with an odd tightness in his stomach. Sometimes when they rehearsed, he would even look at Eamon as he sang, like he was the object of their love songs. It was a childhood mix-up between “he’s spending time with me, I’m in love” and “he’s spending time with me, he’s my friend.” Since Conor had never really had anyone up until then, obviously he just confused the feelings. After all, the only reason he had even known Eamon was because he was trying win over Raphina. This was just part two of that, he was sure.  
“Not like sharp meaning smart, but like you’ve seen shit now, you’re less naive; less innocent. I had always like that bit about you.” Conor shifted his shoulders, flicking his cigarette.  
“Sorry,” he laughed drily.  
“Don’t be. This is good too. Darker, but I think I can still see you under there,” he elbowed Conor’s arm and Conor smirked.  
“How are you, Eamon?”  
“Bit tired, actually. But I’m alright. Shelby is back at the flat so I’m a bit anxious about her being there alone for awhile,”  
“You’re worried about leaving your girlfriend alone for a few hours?” Conor asked, ignoring the way his heart panged in his chest.  
“Girlfriend? No, Shelby is one of my rabbits. She’s my newest so I’m a little worried about her adjusting. Don’t be daft, Conor, I’m gay. Didn’t the guys tell you? It was really the talk of this sodding town for like three years when everyone found out. The first and only queer in all of Ireland,” he said laughing. It somehow wsa surprising to him, not a massive life changing discovery, it's not like he woud see Eamon any differently. He was still the rabbit-boy. Conor chuckled and shrugged,  
“Didn’t come up.”  
“You’re alright with it, then?”  
“‘Course I am,” he said. “Don’t be daft.” Eamon smiled. Even in the darkness of dusk, Conor could see his hazel eyes glitter.  
“What about you? Married? Engaged? Still dating the supermodel?”  
“Oh, you didn’t hear? Raphina cheated on me a while back there, supermodels clearly aren’t for me. Can’t keep up, really,” he chuckled.  
“I hadn’t heard. Only from your brother that you weren’t doing well after he called you and all of that…. ‘S probably for the best though,”  
“What? Why?” Conor laughed.  
“It’s just that I didn’t ever really like her that much. You were always so kind and for whatever reason she was always mean to you, you always came second to her, you know? You formed a band for her, for God’s sake. You wrote her hundreds of songs, the least she could have done was not run off on you so many bleedin’ times.” Conor was silent for a moment. He’d never been told that before, that he had deserved better. Not even Brendan had told him that. “Thought maybe you deserved a bit more, you know? But, it’s in the past. I should get this wine in your mum’s cooler before it goes funky, I’ll see you in there.” Conor nodded and faced out towards the yard again.  
“Conor?”  
“Yeah?”  
“I’m sorry about your da, I know it feels,” Conor nodded.  
“And… Conor?” Eamon said a little more quietly,  
“Yes?”  
“I was going to write to you. I’ve got a whole box of letters that I never sent to you because Brendan asked me not to, he didn’t want you to come back, you see. Wanted you to make it. He thought…. He thought that if I wrote you, you would have come home. I dunno. But I’m sorry. I wish I had written, I really wish I had, Conor. I’ve missed you, and I mean that. The rest of those buggers can sod off, right?” Eamon said quietly, gripping Conor’s shoulder tightly. Conor smiled sadly, nodding and closing his eyes, processing the feeling of Eamons palm on his shoulder, the sound of his words. The years he had lost. He felt himself secretly hope that Eamon wouldn’t move his hand, that he wouldn’t leave him out here all alone again, that he wouldn’t got into the madness that waited for him inside. But he did, and when he left, Conor was a little less alone than he had felt ten minutes ago.

When he came back inside, Eamon looked up with him with eyes that shone and a dazzling smile. Everyone looked between them, expecting something to happen. Expecting, he supposed, for Conor to pop off at Eamon, presumably for being gay like everyone else had. The funny bit was that by being in London, Conor had become more open minded, more worldly, than they would ever imagine being. So he of all people was the least likely to be a dick about it.  
He sent Eamon a smile back. The pair they would make, a disgraced musician and queer Irishman. Not that he meant together together but just…. As friends.  
Would they even become friends again? He was going to leave at the end of the week after his father’s Will was settled and he was buried. He would go back to London to write more music and drink more whiskey. He’d come to terms that realistically, he’d probably be dead in the next ten years either by way of drinking or just because he was just so dreadfully unhappy in his life. It wasn’t a bad thing really. Was it the best? Certainly not. But all famous rock stars burned bright and then imploded so where is the harm in it? But now that he knew…. Now that he knew Eamon again and had been given a sliver of a chance to be his friend, was he really ready to let that go?  
“I think I better be going, Eddie’s back at home with the sitter, can’t imagine she’s willing to do overtime, he’s quite fussy,” said Larry clapping Gary on his shoulder. The two brothers rose and gave Conor a firm handshake and held his shoulder like businessmen do in films, saying something like, “I’ll see you at the Wake, mate.” Conor nodded and gave them tight smiles. He loved these guys, he did. They had been his family when he didn’t have much of one at home. But now…. Everyone had changed and didn’t want to admit it. They still wanted him to be Conor, pre-London, while also assuming that he would be this beatdown monster, never thinking that it was them that had changed. He really wouldn’t have minded, honestly. He knew things would be different, he knew he had missed things, but the complicated and rather contradictory way they were acting towards him was utterly maddening.   
“Better be off too,” said Darren, Barry and Ngig nodded all filing out after each other. Finally only Eamon and his family remained. They sat in silence, Conor observing the silver ring on his middle finger, a gift from his agent when he hit number one on the charts and broke records for the first time.  
“So, Eamon. How’s the cafe business?” His mother asked,  
“Fine,” Eamon said. “Thinking of buying the flat in between mine and the shop to open up a bookshop or something. Widen my audience so to speak,”  
“That’s a great idea,” Conor said without hesitation. Eamon grinned.  
“Yeah?” Eamon asked,  
“Well, I think that’s risky. That’s gonna weaken you financially, make you more susceptible to big businesses buying you out. You’re a small cafe, keep it that way. Don’t risk it. Besides no one reads these days, the kids are all too high to want to read. It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long.” Said Tony from across the table. Eamon nodded,  
“Right, thanks for the advice,” Conor smirked.  
“Something funny, Con?” Said Tony,  
“No, not at all,” Tony huffed like he’d proven a point and won the argument.  
“Eamon, do you want to write a song sometime before I leave? For old time’s sake?”  
“You should be focused on your father while you’re here, Conor, not off playing bandmates. Be respectful of your father’s passing. Lord knows you didn’t care much for him but have the decency to stop being the rock ‘n roll hotshot that you think you are for a moment.” Tony said sternly and Conor raised and eyebrow and smirked, pushing away from the table. He’d been waiting for Tony to finally lose it. It had just been a matter of time.  
“Tell us how you really feel, Tony.”  
His stepfather gritted his teeth, “you’re a brat you know that, Conor? A spoiled little shite who always got his way and can’t deal with the fact that maybe he just isn’t as good as everyone told him he was when he a babe. For fuck’s sake,” he scoffed and Conor set his jaw, feeling Eamon watching him carefully. He turned to face Eamon and sighed,  
“Eamon. Would you like to write together sometime this week?”  
“Bloody-”  
“I wasn’t asking you, Anthony. So if you’d kindly fuck off, I would be so very appreciative,”  
“How dare you-”  
“Enough! Both of you! I won’t have this! Not in my house!” His mother shrieked. “Eamon, darling, I’m so sorry, you’ll have to excuse these children. Perhaps it’s best if you go, thank you for the wine, dear.” Eamon nodded and stood,  
“Of course, Penny. And for the record, Conor, I’d love to.” He smiled at Tony before touching Conor’s shoulder and leaving swiftly.   
Conor went to bed that night glowing.


	3. III

Turns out, Ann, the ever planner and remarkable woman that she was, had already handled most of his father’s affairs. The Wake would be Wednesday, the Funeral on Thursday. Handle the Will on Saturday and Conor would leave Sunday morning. His mother and Tony were staying in their house across town and would host the Wake, the Will would be discussed at his father’s apartment where Brendan, Ann, the children and Conor would stay. The invitations had been sent, arrangements had been made. The obituary went out Monday and the funeral and Wake details were to be tomorrow Tuesday.  
“Like a fucking machine you are, Ann,” said Conor looking through her folder of notes the next morning at breakfast.  
“Thank you, Conor. And look about last night-”  
“It got out of hand, I know. It won’t happen again, I’ll behave.”  
“He’s our stepfather, Conor,”  
“Firstly, they aren’t married. Next October you can use that argument. Secondly, I don’t bloody care who he is. I won’t be talked to like a child. I’ll behave for mum’s sake but after that, I don’t care. He never didn’t nothing good for me, or you or Brendan. You know that.” She sighed and shook her head,  
“He put me through school, Conor,” He scoffed,  
“Ann-”  
“Conor, I’m not going to do this with you. I know you’re not a child, just behave, alright?” He nodded and took a long drink from his orange juice. It needed alcohol.  
“What happened to you, Conor? You never would have ever picked a fight with Tony. I still love you, no matter what, but this…. It’s so unlike you. What happened to you over there?” Conor shrugged,  
“Had to toughen up a bit, yeah? Ann, this…. Dublin…. The rest of the world isn’t like this. It’s hard. Nobody cares about you, the gran on the corner won’t offer you tea if you’re feeling down. In London, she’ll tell you to piss off,” Ann chuckled at this and reached for his hand across the table. He took it, feeling the warmth of her palm in his. It was peculiar, they never would have done this ten years ago. “Ann, I don’t mean to be hard and sharp. I don’t. But…. The kid that I was is long gone. I mean look at you, you’re a mum! You never wanted kids, right? You’ve changed too, it’s just harder to see when it happens quick and without you looking. Gradual change is easier to stomach, you know?” Ann nods and rubs her thumb softly across his knuckles.  
“I just wish I’d had a chance to say goodbye to him one last time.”

That afternoon, with a flask on the inside of his jacket, Conor took to roaming the streets of his hometown to kill time and to honestly get out of that fucking flat. It was a weird, Twilight Zone version of the home from his childhood only without his parents and he really, really couldn’t take it. So he wandered. The people he passed did double takes and stared but he couldn’t really find it within him to care, it was better than being trapped in an alternate universe all day. He sat down at the park and took a very long drink from the flask engraved with his grandfather’s initials.  
The park was the one thing in this blasted town that really hadn’t changed. The one where he and Raphina would walk after school, where he and Eamon would come to write songs. Sure, the trees were taller and the flowers weren’t the exact same ones but it felt as though time had spared this one patch of green from its ravenous destruction. A woman ran by with her dog, a child played hide-and-go-seek among the trees with her father. A cat chased a squirrel up a tree and birds swooped overhead. It was peaceful and easy here, away from the bustle of the city and the chaos of “home”. Conor sat in silence here for a while and almost felt like himself again, much less like the stranger he had become.  
He knew he was different. He knew he was mean and hard. He knew he was broken. Conor was no longer the awkward and gentle boy he had been and he hated it. He wanted to be that boy so desperately. He hated snapping at Ann and Tony. He hated looking like a bin-fire. He could practically hear Brendan saying, “well, what are you gonna do about it, then?” The problem was, he didn’t know. He tried to be kind, he thought kind thoughts but by time they made it out of his mouth they turned sour and harsh. How had Eamon been able to see the old him under all of this when he himself couldn’t?  
“S’cuse me, sir?” Came a little voice over his shoulder accompanied by a quick tap. He turned, squinting through his sunglasses. “My ball, it’s run under your feet,” said the little girl pointing at a small football that had indeed rolled next to his feet under the bench. He reached down and handed it back to the girl.  
“There you are,”  
“Thank you, sir,” she said giggling. Conor smiled, an actual, genuine smile. “I like your silly hair and your funny coat, mister,” she said pointing at his overcoat.  
“It is rather funny, isn’t it?” She nodded,  
“S”not cold,” and he chuckled. “But your hair is nice, my da says if you washed it you’d look a tad bit better.” He laughed and looked at where the man stood waiting for his daughter. He waved, Conor waved back.  
“Your da is a smart man, maybe I’ll listen to him then,”  
“Is your da smart, too?”  
“Nah, my da was daft. Yours is much better,” she giggled. “Hurry on now, don’t want to keep the smart man waiting.” She nodded and squeezed her ball to her chest before running back to her father. The man waved again, before he picked up his delighted daughter and set her on his shoulders before carrying her away. Conor watched them for a moment before taking a deep drink from his flask and heading back home.

His mother and Tony came around for dinner. Conor didn’t say a word all evening, except a thank you to Ann for dinner. He held his tongue and ate slowly as to remain occupied. It was a tragically tense affair. Brendan was more subdued now than he had been a decade ago, but he still had kick when he wanted too. He let Tony know he wasn’t welcome but he wasn’t nearly as bad as Conor had been yesterday. Tony looked around like the king of the castle, like Brendan and Conor were pitiful peasants in his way to glory. His mother was terse with her children and wouldn’t hold eye contact with anyone except for Ann.   
When dinner had finished, and the plates had been cleared, they sat quietly and listened to the radio until there was a sharp knock at the door.  
“I’ll get it,” Conor said leaping to his feet. He would definitely die if he had to sit there a moment longer listening to Tony and Ann make polite small talk.  
“Eamon?” He said opening the door. Eamon smiled and rocked back on his heels.  
“Dinner?” Conor grinned,  
“Starving,” he responded (he wasn’t) before closing the door behind him and following Eamon to his car parked across the street. He wasn’t sure why he went so easily, why it felt a bit like an adventure or like he was breaking the rules when he wasn’t, but it did and he went with it.

“How’s your day been?” Eamon asked and Conor nodded sitting himself down in the booth across from Eamon.  
“Went to the park then came home and wrote for a bit. Yours?” Eamon nodded.  
“Fine, busy at work. Shelby is doing well, hasn’t shit on the bed yet,” Conor laughed.  
“Still keeping rabbits on the bed, then?”  
“Well, not everything changes, Conor,” he said with a smirk as the waitress brought them menus. She was very pretty, tall and dark haired, pale like every other Irish girl. She would have caught Conor’s attention had he not been staring at Eamon who had his lip caught between his teeth reading over the wine lists. He shook his head and thanked the woman without looking up from his own menu.  
“Sure, take your time, I’ll be around,” said wandering off to the next table over.  
It was a very classy restaurant and he stood worse than he had on his first day at Synge Street. Even Eamon had on a button down and some dress pants. He could have done with a heads up, not that he would have had anything better to wear. This is where men came to do business and brought their wives along as trophies of their masculinity. Where you had to make reservations a week in advance if you wanted to get in on the day they had lobster.   
“How did you get us in here?” Conor asked looking at the insane prices for a steak.  
Eamon shrugged, “Made a reservation last night,” Conor smiled,  
“How’d you know I wasn’t going to be busy,” Eamon chuckled and made a face that said, really? “Fair enough.” Conor decided on the fillet mignon (mostly because it was the only thing priced within reason) and Eamon said he would get a side.  
“What do you mean, ‘a side’? I’ll pay, get what you’d like,”  
“No, Conor, I invited you to dinner. You get what you’d like.”  
“How about you get a side, I’ll get the filet mignon, we split them and go dutch?” Eamon grinned and took a sip of his red wine.  
“Deal,” Conor smiled to himself and waved down the waitress. When she had their orders and left, Eamon looked at Conor with a question in his eyes.  
“What is it, Eams?”   
“She’s pretty,” Conor looked over at where she was standing at the hosts booth,  
“Yeah, suppose so.”  
“And….?”  
“Sorry, I’m a bit lost?” Conor said taking a drink of his water.  
“Conor, the last time you saw a pretty girl you formed a band to impress her.” Conor laughed and looked back at the girl. She was pretty, in fact she did remind him a lot of Raphina but it was different now. Conor could feel that now he had his guard up. He had learned his lesson with Raphina. He had fallen in love with her as an idea, who he thought she was. But she was damaged badly and Conor hadn’t been ready for that, even after Brendan had warned him.  
“If I formed a band for every pretty person I saw, I would have more bands than time in the day,” Eamon smiled and Conor looked at the rim of his cup.  
“‘Every pretty person’?” Eamon said a little more quietly. Conor shrugged,  
“Yeah well, you know what I mean,” he said damning himself for the slip up.  
Conor wasn’t gay, he wasn’t. He loved being with Raphina, he loved girls and everything that came with them. But there had been men, too, that had caught his eye. In London, he could remember stolen kisses and maybe more (he wasn’t sure, alcohol was a fickle thing) in an alleyway after Raphina had left him with a handsome stranger. He remembered that it hadn’t felt wrong, and, on days where he could be honest with himself, it had felt good too. He could remember watching Eamon’s hand skip across the piano keys and strum the guitar strings, entranced in a daydream. But whenever he thought about it too much, his father’s voice played back in his head about queers or he saw how disappointed Brendan would be. He wanted so badly to rip that bit out of him, it would make his life so much easier, but his heart and frankly other parts of his anatomy, felt differently.   
“Anyway,” he laughed, his heart beating abnormally in his chest. “Moving on.”   
Why hadn’t he ordered a whiskey? He thought leaning back in his chair to look more relaxed. Eamon with an eyebrow raised, nodded and let the subject rest.

So they moved on, talking about the weather and the ‘80s and London. Eamon told him about how Synge Street went through a massive culture shift at the end of the ‘80s and how Mrs. Perkins on George’s Street had accidentally dyed her hair blue in ‘91. Conor told him about working at the Radio Station and the busy London streets. How Raphina had left him and hinted that he had been struggling this past year. Eamon told him about how his first, and only, boyfriend had left him and how embarrassing that had been to lose out to a Scot. How Eamon still hadn’t cried over losing his father in ‘93.   
“I’m sorry,” Conor said quietly. “I had no idea.” Eamon shrugged.  
“It’s fine, I don’t think about it much these days. He wasn’t a very good da anyway,”  
“Still. Ngig flew home for my da’s funeral and we weren’t even that close, I don’t think he had even met my father. I couldn’t even make it to yours and we were…” he faltered and looked away. Eamon touched his foot under the table with his own.  
“Conor, it’s okay. I was angry at first, I was. I hated that you’d become successful, that you didn’t come back for us, but….” he shrugged. “I grew up, Conor. I stopped hating my ex, I stopped hating my father, I stopped listening to the ghosts of my past. I began to love myself and do something with my life that I was proud of, you know? In time I even forgave your helpless arse.” Conor smirked and nodded.  
“I still haven’t forgiven myself,” he said. Eamon nodded,  
“I know. But you should try to,” Conor smiled.  
Eamon’s foot stayed touching Conor’s for the rest of the night.

 

Ann was furious.  
“Walking out of dinner? Unacceptable, Conor! You said you’d behave! You’re just giving Tony ammo, now! Mam was heartbroken! Do you have any idea what you’re doing to her? Listen to me! Are you fucking deaf, Conor?” She screamed slamming pots in the sink as he sat at the counter thinking about how Eamon’s hand had lingered on his knee before he stepped out of the car. He knew he was in trouble in more ways than one.   
“What?” He asked realizing that Ann was staring at him with a red face and tears in her eyes. Definitely more ways than one.  
“Jesus Christ, Conor! I know this is hard, but it’s hard on us too! You’re being childish and selfish and it’s hurting us!” She collapsed back against the counter, her hand covering her mouth as she sobbed quietly.  
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.  
“I know,” she said, wiping her face. “But I need you here, Conor. Have you even spoken with Brendan yet? Hm? Have you any idea your nephew’s name? Or-or what mam’s been doing these last years? Any idea at all?” Conor shook his head. He had been actively avoiding speaking with Brendan and getting attached to anything back in Dublin. If he knew the baby’s name, or about his mother, he would become attached, he knew he would, and he couldn’t afford to do that.  
“I’m sorry,” he said again staring at his glass of brandy on the table.   
“Connor, you are twenty-six years old. You have your entire life ahead of you. I’ve seen how much you’ve been drinking, how much you smoke. I know your life has not been easy, but neither has mine. You need to stop wallowing and fucking do something about your life. You’re hurting? Fine, let’s deal with it. You need therapy? I’ll make you an appointment. Need meds? I’ll drive you to the fucking doctor’s. I’m done with this hopelessness act. You’re not a charity case, you’ve been here before, you know how to get out of it. You know you can, you just don’t want to admit it because drinking yourself to death is easier.”   
Conor felt as though he had been slapped in the fucking face.  
“I need to go to bed,” he said feeling like his stomach was going to turn inside out.  
“Coward!” She screamed as he pushed away from the table.

He went to his room and hung his head over the sink, splashing cold water on his face. Ann’s words bounced around in his head making it hard to think straight. He fell to his knees, the sink still running and pressed his forehead against the sink ad sobbed.  
He cried for Raphina and for the love he had lost. He cried for his music and the band he had left behind. He cried for the years spent at the Quickie-Mart and the years he lost with his family. He cried for Eamon and his father. He cried for Ann and Brendan and his mother. He cried for a god he had long forsaken. He sobbed, massive, rib aching wells of tears for the first time in over a decade. His eyes burned and his head felt like it had a spike through it but still he cried. He cried for the sake of crying.  
And he cried for his father.


	4. IV

The next morning, Conor woke up on the bathroom floor with the sink tap still running. He reached up and with shaking hand twisted the tap off and sat up against the wall. His face was still raw from crying, tear stains down his cheeks. He felt utterly fucked, worse than any hangover he’d ever had before. Slowly, with absolutely no deliberation he made his way downstairs to get a bottle, holding the railing the whole way down.  
Ann and Brendan had already left for work, the children off at daycare so the house was oddly silent. He chose a pretty and expensive looking bottle from the cabinet and traipsed back up the stairs.  
Conor spent the whole day drinking and writing. Words rushed out of his finger tips, his meltdown the previous night unlocking all sorts of lyrical genius that seemed to have been slumbering within him. He felt a bit like a mad artist, drinking, writing, composing music. He talked himself through several albums worth of work and years of suppressed emotion. Around dusk he heard the door open and close, the sounds of children flooding the house. Ann was home. That meant he would not be leaving his room for the evening.  
Somewhere in him, Conor knew she was right, but he elected to ignore this part of him with vigor until further notice.  
An hour or so later, the door opened and closed again as Brendan came home, solidifying his decision to stay holed up until they either went to bed or left the next morning. What he wasn’t expecting was a hesitant knock at his door.  
“Open,” he said sitting up from his place on the floor, papers scattered around him. He expected to see Ann, ready to cry and fight him with words, dragging him to a shrink or to a druggist. But it was Brendan.  
“Erm, can I sit?” Conor nodded slowly and his brother took a seat at his desk. “Bit of a mess you’ve made,” he said nodding to the papers, Conor smiled.  
“Writing,”  
“I gathered. Ann tells me you had a bit of a row last night,”  
“Guess so,” he mumbled taking a drink.  
“Conor,” he sighed.  
“Brendan, please. I don’t wanna do this right now,”  
“I wasn’t gonna scold you, stupid. Just shut up for a second and listen, right?” Conor scoffed and leaned back against his wardrobe.  
“The floor is yours,” Brendan sighed.  
He looked older, Conor thought. He had premature graying in his hair and stubble. His dirty jeans had been traded in for nicer jeans. His hair was a bit more kept. He didn’t carry a cig behind his ear anymore and he didn’t reek of hash.  
“I just…. I wanted to say I was proud of you. You fucking made it, international rockstar and all. I know it hasn’t been easy, I know you’re hurting and I know you don’t wanna admit it. I also know what that’s like. Conor, I don’t want to see you end up like me. I wasted my youth, I wasted my entire fucking life, but you haven’t yet, you know? You’re doing shit with your life and I’m proud of you for it. Now you’re the jet engine, right? I just I think you needed to know that.” Conor nodded and Brendan stood to leave.  
“Hey er,” he started, staring at the wall. “Why uh, why don’t you stay? Help me write. We can put on some Joy Division and Duran Duran like old times and just…. You know….” Brendan smiled and ruffled Conor’s hair.  
“Nah, I don’t wanna spoil the memory. That’s your life now, Conor, not mine, I’ll see you later,” he said walking out of the room leaving Conor feeling desperately alone.

He called Eamon at half past twelve.  
“Allo?” Said Eamon on the other end.  
“Will you help me write a song?” He asked quietly, fingers thumbing the pages of the phonebook, his index finger still on Eamon’s name. He heard him smile through the phone,  
“Be there in ten,” the line went dead and Conor went to wait on the porch.

Eamon picked him up twelve minutes later and took him back to his place. Even with it’s lights off and door locked the cafe looked inviting. Conor felt every desire to go in and sit there every day and write for the next fifty years. They passed the flat Eamon wanted to buy on the way up to his and Conor had never loved being near someone as much as he loved being with Eamon as he explained his vision for the book shop. His flat was the next up, small but so very Eamon. Vinyl record covers were pinned onto the wall in his front room, covering every inch of one of the four walls. His guitars hung on the wall opposite of a couch that Conor remembered from Eamon’s childhood home. Cassettes poured out of boxes next to an expensive stereo and record player. When Conor asked if he’d ever heard of a CD, Eamon balked, “Vinyl and tape is the only way to listen to music properly, Conor.”  
Beads hung in the doorway leading to the kitchen and dining room. Back down the hall was his bedroom, plain and not overly decorated but books on music lined the walls in towering shelves, more vinyl was stacked next to a second very expensive looking record player. His bed was messy and unmade but three little bunnies (Shelby, Nathan and Charlie) sat curled up in the end of the bed. Conor felt his heart swell.  
“S’not much but it’s home,” Conor smiled and for a brief second let himself feel an overwhelming and frankly startling fondness for Eamon.  
“It’s perfect,” he declared. Eamon blushed.  
“So what did you need help with? Rifts? You always struggled with those,”  
“Firstly, Eamon, I did not. Secondly, nothing really, I just needed to see you,” he coughed, “Needed your opinion, I mean. On some pieces.” He blanched, his tongue slipping. For fuck’s sake, couldn’t he catch a break? Eamon smiled and walked back out to the living room and handed him an acoustic.  
“Give us listen then, will you?”

They fell asleep around two am am after playing, writing and listening to music. Eamon hadn’t heard Pink Floyd’s new album. Conor hated the Violent Femmes and Eamon had been horrified (“Folk and rock, Conor! They’re amazing! What the fuck is wrong with you?”) Eamon helped him tweak the music he had written that day and it became Conor’s best album yet.   
It was close to ten am when they awoke on the couch and chair in the living room. With breakfast in their hands, they went and sat across from one another on the floor as an old Smiths album played on the record player, the bunnies on the couch. Eamon was explaining the intricacies of brewing coffee and tea while Conor listened intently.   
Eamon talked with his hands and didn’t make eye contact when he was rambling. He was more talkative than when they were little and he could talk about more than bunnies and music which still amazed Conor. He chuckled at his own jokes and made faces when he said something awkward. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, the fact that he was literally going through a “midlife” crisis or that Eamon was the only one who treated him normally, but Conor was hit with a sudden urge to kiss the dorky expression right off of Eamon’s mouth. (Really, he wanted to kiss every inch of Eamon’s porcelain skin, run his hands through his glorious locks of hair. He wanted to listen to him talk about coffee and what books would be in his shop and how he used to volunteer at Synge Street as a music teacher years ago. He wanted to make Eamon breakfast (he made killer bangers and mash) and go to fancy restaurants. He wanted to be around Eamon all of the time. His stomach flipped over in his stomach as he watched Eamon struggle to find the words to describe the perfect blonde roast.)  
He was a little in love with Eamon. Just a little but there it was. Right in front of his face, throwing old memories of late night music sessions and brief touches. Of the feeling he had when Eamon laughed at his jokes or liked his lyrics. How it had felt when Eamon first let him hold Charlotte. How he had spent more time at Eamon’s house than his own because it was quiet, because Eamon was there. They could have written anywhere but being where Eamon lived, where he was home, was special.   
He felt like he might throw up.  
“Are you okay, Conor? You’ve got a funny look on your face,” Conor nodded.  
“Peachy. Food and tea pairings?” He said sitting forward and trying to ignore the sloshy-ness of his intestines.  
“Are you sure? Are you gonna be sick?”  
“I’m-” his voice cracked. “I’m decent. Carry on,” Eamon sighed.  
“You know, Conor, there was a time when you’d tell me everything.” He whispered,   
“Yeah, I know. But I swear, it’s nothing,” Eamon huffed and pursed his lips.  
“I wish you’d trust me, Conor. I’m trying, here,” he said quietly. “I know you better than anyone at this point, I really wish you could see that,” Eamon clasped his hands in his lap and looked at the ceiling. “Conor, it isn’t easy for me to see you like this and I’m trying so hard to just be you know…. Your friend,” he chuckled. “But you keep shutting me out.”  
“No, I’m not,” Conor said with half conviction.  
“Yes,” he said. “You are. You say shit but never elaborate, you never let me in. I’ve been talking for the last hour, Conor.” Conor bit his lip and rocked back and forth. If he could just say something. But he can’t because he can’t risk it, because he’s leave in a few days, because of what his family would say. He couldn’t.  
“I’m sorry,” Eamon rolled his eyes. Conor felt him drift back, sink away and he began to panic. He couldn’t lose Eamon. He couldn’t, especially when he’d already probably lost his mother and Ann in less than two days. Not that he ever really had them in the first place but…. Ann would take a while to talk down, seeing as she was the most stubborn person he’d ever known next to Brendan, and with Tony around, his mother would follow him wherever he led her.  
“No, Eamon I-” he sighed and closed his eyes pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Eamon scooted closer across the hardwood and reached out to touch his knee.  
“If I did something stupid could you promise not to hate me?” Eamon furrowed his brow and nodded slowly. Conor breathed deeply, his whole stomach rolling over.  
“I’m such a fucking idiot,” he grumbled before pushing himself up on his heels and planting a kiss right on Eamon’s frowning lips. Eamon started, jerking back a second to look at Conor with huge eyes, his tortoiseshell glasses askew. He felt bile boil in his stomach. He’d really fucking done it now. No deadly amount of alcohol could erase this. But Eamon smiled and lifted Conor’s hair behind his ear, resting his hand on his neck.  
“I fucking knew it,” he whispered before kissing him back.  
Every song lyric flew out of Conor’s brain with one fell swoop. It was a cheesy, teenaged type kiss, worse than when he had first kissed Raphina, but god, was it good. Eamon’s hands were on his neck pulling him closer, kissing him with a ferocity that was meant to make up for all of the time they had lost. Conor couldn’t really breathe but couldn’t he find it within himself to care. Eamon finally pulled away and Conor heard himself whine as his eyes fluttered open. Eamon was staring at him with cheeks bright red and eyes blown wide. His lips were swollen and Conor thought that no one, not even Raphina had ever looked this good while looking so utterly fucked. And they’d only kissed.  
“Conor,”  
“Please don’t, Eamon. Can we just…. Do this or whatever and not talk for a bit? I just…. I know. I know, I just,” he huffed and closed his eyes breathing deeply. “I need this. I need…. You. Okay?” Conor opened his eyes and Eamon wa smiling softly,  
“Always.”

Somehow, they made it back to Eamon’s bedroom, Eamon pushing Conor up against the closed door and pressing a thigh between his legs. Conor gasped into his mouth at the pressure. It was different than with Raphina. Where her noises had been soft and mewl-ish, Eamon was breathy and throaty. He had edges and stubble that scratched deliciously on Conor’s soft skin and left red plumes in its wake. It was different but it was good and Conor couldn’t get enough of it. Conor pushed his hands under Eamon’s shirt and dug his fingertips into his hips, dragging him closer and closer. Eamon swallowed thickly looking down at their hips pressed against one another then back up into Conor’s eyes.  
“Are you sure?” Conor nodded rapidly. Nothing, nothing had ever felt this right before. Even running away with Raphina hadn’t.  
“I’m sure, I’m so sure,” he breathed grabbing Eamon and dragging him back in for another searing kiss. It felt like his soul was on fire, like everything in his life had been leading up to this moment right here, right now. Eamon pulled Conor forwards towards the untidy bed and Conor laughed,  
“I’m not really trying to be funny here you asshole,” Eamon grumbled fumbling with the buttons on Conor’s shirt.  
“It’s just that, if one of your fucking rabbits shat on the bed I’m gonna fucking kill you,” he breathed as Eamon sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Conor to stand over him. Eamon looked up at him with a smirk on his face and Conor felt his knees quiver.  
“What happened to shutting up, Lawlor?” Conor laughed but his voice caught as Eamon pressed a kiss and nipped at the lines of his hip flexors, right above his pant line.  
“Jesus,” he choked and grasped at Eamon’s shoulders for any sort of leverage. Eamon kissed up his abdomen to his chest, latching onto his collar bone and pulling Conor down to straddle his hips.   
Conor’s hips jerked forward and Eamon groaned into his chest, “you fucker,” he gasped. “Hold on move,” Conor shifted and Eamon moved them back, more into the center of the bed. Conor made quick work of Eamon’s shirt and almost cried seeing his perfect pale skin beneath him. He sat, mesmerized by the person below him, resting back on Eamon’s thighs. He could feel the hardness and heat radiating out of Eamon’s pants but he just…. Eamon was truly breathtaking.  
“You’re beautiful,” Eamon sat up on his elbows and ran a hand down the front of Conor’s chest,  
“Oh, come on, says you. No wonder all those Brits were all over you, huh?” Conor blushed and looked away,  
“I didn’t…. They did mean anything, not like this anyway,”  
“Yes, having sex with your childhood best friend does have a different caliber to it,” Conor leaned down and kissed the smug look off of Eamon’s face.  
“One quick thing, did you know that when you blush, your whole chest goes red too?”  
“Eamon, shut the hell up, for the love of God,” he groaned rolling his hips back with cruel pressure and breathtaking friction. Eamon fell back onto the pillows, gasping for breath, his staccato pants making Conor’s pulse jump. He licked his lips and leaned forward, teeth scraping against Eamon’s throat, biting softly at the juncture of his jaw and neck.  
The phone was ringing.  
“Oh fucking hell,” he groaned pressing his forehead into Eamon’s chest, lips still barely brushing against his skin.  
“They can leave a message,” Eamon choked as Conor tentatively swept over his nipple with his tongue. The phone quieted and Eamon hitched a leg up over Conor’s hip flipping them over. Conor felt his heart stop as he looked up in shock at a coy looking Eamon. He’d never been so turned on in his entire life.  
“Too many pants,” Eamon grumbled pulling Conor’s obscenely tight jeans down his legs, janking them off of his ankles, pressing kisses to Conor’s knees and inner thighs on his way down. He stood briefly and shucked his own jeans before looking at Conor for a moment with a soft smile,  
“This is a sight I could get used to,” he mumbled, his eyes raking over Conor’s body, sprawled out across his bed. Conor blushed and tried not to think about it too much.  
Then the phone rang again.   
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Eamon groaned, grabbing at his hair and Conor felt a strange needed to know what it felt like to grab handfuls of those brown locks for himself.  
“I’ll be right back, don’t you fucking move.” He said pointing at Conor who didn’t think he’d ever ever move again. He laid there on his back, drinking in the smell of Eamon, absorbing the nuances of the apartment, Cemetery Gate by The Smiths drifting in through the now open door.  
“Allo? Yeah? No, he’s here…. Shit no, he’s fine…. I didn’t…. Yeah, course…. Be there in fifteen minutes…. ‘Course, I’m sorry, see you soon.” There was a click and Conor sat up, reaching for his pants in a frantic flurry of movement.  
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mumbled throwing on his shirt. No, he couldn’t wear this shirt, it was the same one as yesterday. “Eamon, can I borrow a shirt?” He called. He looked up and found Eamon standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking at him oddly.   
“The Wake, I know I’ve just remembered,” he began.  
“Your mother’s been worried sick, Conor. Ann called her this morning, she was afraid,” he gasped closing his eyes, “that’d you’d tossed yourself into the ocean.”  
“Ann’s overreacting is all,”  
“Conor, people don’t just think other people are gonna kill themselves for no reason. If I woke up and you weren’t here, I’d think you went on a jog or went to the store.” Conor stood, his expression hardening. For fuck’s sake,  
“We had a row, Eamon. What do you want me to say? I’ll talk to her today,”  
“Conor-”  
“Eamon, you’re not in charge of me. We’re not even together, for Christ’s sake! You had forgotten I fucking existed until three days ago, you can’t ignore me for eleven years and just now start caring about my well being because you want to fuck me! She’s worried because I’ve got a fucking drinking problem and go through depressive mood swings. What else do you want me to say, Eamon? What else? That I’m a fucking mess? That I’ve hurt them and you? That you’re worried sick and only want the best for me? Well fuck off because you weren’t there when it counted so why should you be here for me now?” Eamon stood there in the doorway with and terrified look on his face, somewhere between hurt and anger. Conor shrugged on his shirt and stalked past him, forcing his own guilt down to his toes and into the floor.  
“Wait, Conor-”  
“Fuck off, Eamon!” he seethed slamming the door behind him. He stood in the hall for a moment, before rushing down the stairs and outside to find the nearest pub and drink himself out of his misery.

“Lemme have a scotch, mate?” Brendan asked the the bar tender.  
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Conor asked.  
“Gone to have a drink, looks like. You missed the Wake,” Conor shrugged and cast a sideways glance at his brother sitting on the bar stool next to him.  
“Who gives a fuck?”  
“Mam, Tony, Ann, Eamon and even me a bit,” he chuckled. He looked nice, Conor decided. A suit (borrowed no doubt) and a pale blue tie. Sensible.  
“Don’t care and why should I? You never fucking cared until so-”  
“I know, so why do we get to care now? Why do we get to have an opinion? Conor, we always cared, you sodding idiot. Mam cried for weeks after you left, da blamed himself, they hated me. I began to think I’d sent you off to your death. Even Ann was bothered by it. Eamon was in terrible shape. Wrote you all of these fucking love letters. He even tried to keep the band going but it was no use. We have always cared, Conor, you were the one who didn’t care. You expected us to reach out, but what about you? Why didn’t you call or write?” Conor shrugged and downed another half inch of his whiskey.  
“Dunno,”  
“Exactly, Conor. You don’t know. And I know you did care, you had the biggest heart of any of us, always had, always will. That’s why you’re like this, right? It hurts too much? So you stopped caring and became like this. You’re feeling too much and because you’re such a sensitive kid-”  
“I’m not a fucking kid,” he slurred.  
“Then stop fucking acting like it. Jesus, Conor, you’re worse than I was. If anybody could get through to you, I thought I’d be Eamon,” he grumbled.  
“He tried. Turns out he’s just as fucking fake as the rest of yous,”  
Brendan scoffed and spun Conor’s bar stool around to face him.  
“Eamon loves you. He’s loved you since the day you walked into his fuckng house. He gave you his passion and his heart so you could just run off with some crazy girl, then come back and act like a dick to ‘em. He showed up crying, did you know that? To the Wake? He was so worried he’d lost you,”  
“Well, he never fucking had me I’m not queer. Just got ahead of myself.”  
“Fine, you’re not fucking queer, Conor. For fuck’s sake, if you love him, you love him and that’s that. Stop making this so bleedin’ complicated! It ain’t! You don’t have to be anything. Conor you’re telling yourself this story that you’re unloved, unwanted, that you’re alone and that everyone is trying make you out to be something that you aren’t. But you’re wrong. You never have been alone. We’ve always loved you, always stood by you. The only thing we’ve ever wanted you to be was happy.”   
Conor looked at his brother with glassy eyes and laid his head on the bar.  
“I’m so tired, Brendan,” he finally whispered, tears burning his eyes, his voice cracking. Brendan put his hand on Conor’s neck and nodded,  
“I know, Conor. But it’s okay, we’re gonna get you through this. S’what we do,” Conor closed his eyes and nodded slowly.   
He vaguely recalled Brendan helping to life his small frame from the bar, practically carrying him out to his car. He could distantly recall curling up the seat next to his big brother and feeling silent tears roll down his cheeks. The only thing he could remember clearly was Brendan singing to him softly and holding his hand the whole way home.


	5. V

The next morning, as he sat himself on the edge of the toilet after vomiting up what was probably all of his intestines, he knew that Ann was right. He knew Brendan was right. He was better than this. He was a musician. He was a good musician. He had a family that loved him and he would be damned if he was going to let that pass him by. Every fiber in his being was repulsed by the thought of the pain that was to come, the judgement and the shame and everything that came with righting yourself, but he had to get it together. It’s so much easier to drown out the world in alcohol, but this reality, as imperfect as it was, was what he had to work with. He had to take back what he’d try to remove himself from.  
He would go to the druggist and get a prescription. He would stop drinking. He would get himself a therapist. He would take mum to lunch and learn the baby’s name. He would visit Brendan’s music shop and try to forgive Tony. He would try to forgive himself.

He stood in front of the floor length mirror in his room trying to tie the tie Brendan had let him borrow. He was wearing one of Tony’s old suits (from his “younger, fitter days) he had said with a chuckle) that he had lent to him for the funeral. He glared at the fabric in his hands.  
“Need help with that?” Came a soft whisper from the door. His mother was standing there in black, knee length dress stitched with tiny black beads. He didn’t need help, he could get it if he had five more seconds.  
“Yeah, I’m hopeless,” she tutted and walked forwards, taking the tie from his hands gently, like addressing a wounded animal. She made quick work, her brow furrowed, cinching the charcoal gray tie tightly around his neck. He looked at her while her hands flew in a frenzy and noticed the creases by her eyes, the new wrinkles along her cheeks. Smile lines that hadn’t been there before.  
“You love Tony?” He said after a moment, she paused,  
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I loved your father too. We raised three children together, how could I not love the old bastard, God rest his soul.” Conor chuckled,  
“Yeah,”  
“Can you forgive me?” She asked, her hands falling on his chest, her handiwork finally completed.  
“For what?” He asked with a smile, “I’m the one that’s been a complete ass the past few days.” She smiled and wiped a single tear from her cheek.  
“For leaving your father. For loving Tony. For driving you away.” Conor shook his head, had she been thinking that all along?  
“Mum, I’m not mad at you for any of that, I swear it. You didn’t drive me away. And I know you weren’t happy with dad, that’s not your fault. You don’t choose who you love,” he said brushing another tear of hers away with a shaking hand.  
“Well, then I forgive you too,” he smiled and she put a hand to him cheek. “And, Conor, darling, you’re very a much a hypocrite. ‘You don’t choose who you love?’ You give wonderful advice, I’d like to see you listen to yourself for once,” he looked at his feet.  
“Brendan told you?”  
“No,” she said. “I’ve always known, my darling boy. That’s what mams do best, hm?”  
He smiled and kissed her cheek.  
“I’m sorry, mum. I’ll try,” she touched his cheek and smiled once more before turning and going back downstairs. Conor could still feel her hand there long after she had gone.

“Ready for this?” Brendan asked handing him a pair of sunglasses. Conor refused them and put down the sun visor in the car.  
“No,” he said, clicking his buckle. “I feel like shit, Brendan.”  
“Look like it, too,” Conor rolled his eyes.  
“Thanks,”  
“Don’t mention it. Besides, if Eamon has loved you all along, he must have a thing for whatever this is,” he said chuckling and gesturing to Conor’s face.  
Conor looked out of the window and sighed. He hadn’t thought about Eamon at all since yesterday. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He had thought about Eamon every second since yesterday, he had just ignored it. One problem at a time, he had told himself. He loved Eamon. There was no doubt about that. The thing was, he was a fucking wreck and Eamon deserved so much more. He deserved slow Sundays and picnics on the beach. He deserved every love song and every word in every language. He deserved sunshine on a cold, Dublin day when you don’t think the clouds will ever clear and someone who isn’t toxic, and fragile and broken. He deserves constant and steadfast love that won’t lash out or relapse.  
He didn’t deserve Conor and Conor didn’t deserve him.  
Conor was a lightning storm, dangerous and booming. Eamon was the sun peeking behind the clouds. Conor hurt the people around him and had no idea who he was when he wasn’t writing or performing. Eamon was Eamon; kind and gentle, a rabbit lover and a musical genius. Conor was none of those things anymore. How could Eamon still love him if the boy he had fallen in love with no longer existed?  
I think I can see you under there, Eamon had said. Could he really?  
“Oh good Jesus, Conor! Snap outta it! You’re spiralling. Eamon loves you. Stop overthinking it,” Brendan said shoving his brother’s shoulder.  
“Sorry,”  
“Don’t fucking apologize. Just tell him he’s the music to your songs or some poetic gay shit and fucking get him already, alright?” Conor laughed and nodded.  
“Yeah, alright.”

The funeral was excruciating and long. Conor and everybody else in the room cried. The priest spoke for too long and was too boring for Conor to keep his attention focused but he thought it had probably been a nice service.  
Instead, Conor watched Eamon out of the corner of his eye. He was standing in the the section of the church, holding his mother’s arm. She looked exactly the same, only she’d traded in her golden perm for a silvering one. Eamon looked tired and Conor felt his heart pang at the thought that he did that to him.  
He had to speak with him.  
After the service, they walked out to bury his father’s casket in the cemetery. Conor, Brendan, and four men from his father’s work carried the casket up on their shoulders. He wasn’t sure whether it was the nippy breeze burning his nose, but he found it hard to stop from crying the whole way out the the pit in the earth where the headstone already read,  
Robert Lawlor, devoted father.  
They stood afterwards in the front of the church shaking hands and giving hugs to family and friends for a long while. Conor was distracted, looking for Eamon who hadn’t come back out from the cemetery yet.  
“And yous know how I felt about your father, Conor, but-”  
“Excuse me Aunt Gillian, I really must go, I’ll see you again, I hope. It was lovely to catch up,” he said hurriedly, kissing either one of his aunt’s cheeks. She grumbled something about manners but he hadn’t been listening. Instead he dashed out across the street and through the crowd, trying to follow where he had just barely spotted Eamon ducking out of the gates and around, down a side street.  
When Conor turned the corner, Eamon was unlocking his car.  
“Eamon,” he breathed, brushing his hair out of his face. Eamon looked up and set his jaw, pursing his lips.  
“I don’t want to talk, Conor,”  
“Please, Eamon, hear me out,” he sighed and opened his car door.  
“Make it quick, I have to get back to the cafe,”  
“Eamon, I was wrong. I was an idiot and I was wrong. Eamon, I don’t deserve you, you’re an angel among men, you’re the summer, sea breeze and the soft grass between your toes. You’re everything to me, and it took me forever to realize all of this and I am so sorry. I love you, so much, Eamon. And not in a best friend way. It’s always been you. Always,” Eamon looked at him with…. Not the expression he had been hoping for. Where Conor had expected Eamon to look at him with love and maybe even forgiveness was a chillingly cold, dead-eyed expression.  
“Is that all?”  
“I…. I just, I’m sorry for everything, I am. After what you said, after what Brendan said, I just…. It was like an out of bodied experience, like I could see everything that I had missed, that’d I’d shut myself out of and the people I had hurt. In the center of that hurricane was you. The only thing that had always been by my side since I met you. Like it was like all paths led back to you, the only fucking constant in my life, you see?” Eamon pursed his lips and nodded, opening his hands and looking up like asking the sky,  
“Right,” he said looking back down. “I’ll see around, Conor.”  
He got in his car and drove away, leaving Conor standing foolishly in the middle of the road with not a slightest idea of what to do next.

Brendan hadn’t said anything as they go in the car. He was going to drop Conor off at the flat, then go to lunch with Ann and the family. His mother had almost been furious when Conor said he needed to go home, but she saw the tears in her son’s eyes and knew that is was different this time. He wasn’t coping out, he needed to process. Losing the love of his life, that is.  
Before he stepped out of the car, Brendan put his hand on Conor’s shoulder and squeezed. “It’ll be okay, Conor. I promise,” he said quietly. Conor nodded, inhaled sharply and gave him a smile (it was more of a grimace) before stepping out into the gray rain.

Conor sat for a long time at the kitchen counter with a full and unopened bottle of scotch and an empty glass in front of him. He stared at the gold lettering and thought about how Eamon would say it was “aesthetic”. How he might have photographed the way the liquid hit the light because it might look good framed in the cafe or the book shop.  
The contents of the bottle would get him gloriously drunk, there was no doubt about that. It would take a single second to open the thick glass bottle and slip back into the depths that he had just barely made it out of alive. It would be easier than accepting that he had lost the person that had mattered most.   
Maybe it just wasn’t in Conor’s cards to be happy, to find love and live happily ever after. Maybe he was supposed to have become this mess, an alcoholic and star dusted rockstar. Lonely, unreachable and haunted.  
There was a knock at the door.   
Oh, for God’s sake, he thought pulling himself from the kitchen table. He was still in the suit that fit him surprisingly well, with his tie loosened and the first button popped. He could imagine he looked quite stoned, the blank look in his eyes all too familiar to anyone who had seen heartbreak. He hoped it wouldn’t be the neighbor.  
And it wasn’t. Conor did a bit of a double take as his brain tried to process that it was Eamon standing in front of him, panting and red in the face.  
“Eamon?” He croaked,  
“Yeah, hi-” and he launched himself forwards, slotting his lips against Conor’s and wrapping himself around his neck. Conor stumbled backwards into the flat, holding Eamon tight against him. He pulled away and shook his head.  
“What? What?” He gasped, still not registering what was happening. He had to be dreaming. Had to.  
“I just, fuck, I was so mad. So mad. I don’t get mad, Conor, but you always manage the impossible, don’t you? But then I serving this lady her coffee and I just…. I dunno I just had to see you. I don’t know why but it just, it clicked you know? I remembered how Raphina had said, ‘that’s what love is: happy-sad’ and I finally, eleven years later, understood. And I had to see you,” he gasped, his thumbs swiping across Conor’s cheek bones and holding him tightly. Conor smiled a little,  
“So you ran over here? Rather than, I dunno, driving?”  
“Had to see you, I couldn’t waste a single second more, you know? I just, I had to,”  
“Would have been quicker if you drove,” Conor said still smiling,  
“Will you just shut up and kiss me, for the love of all things holy,”  
“There is nothing holy about what I’m about to do to you,” Conor said without thinking and felt his face flush and himself die of embarrassment. Where the fuck did that come from? And why couldn’t he just stop talking?  
“I hate you so much,” Eamon said laughing,  
“No, you fucking don’t,” Conor said grinning and finally kissing Eamon again.

It was as fucking magical as it had been the first time, maybe even better. Eamon was seemed so sure of himself, so confident, meanwhile, Conor was still reeling at the thought that this was Eamon. Nerdy, little rabbit-boy with insane musical talent and amazing fashion sense. This was Eamon, his best friend, his mate and God was it great. It was a spiritual, religious experience. It was like…. It was probably the best thing in the whole world. He would gladly give up booze and cigs if it meant he could kiss Eamon forever. If he was only allowed to kiss Eamon for the next eternity he would live a very, very happy life.  
Eamon pulled him forwards, his dull fingernails scratching against Conor’s neck, sending chills up his spine and a gasp out of his chest. Eamon giggled and did it again, laughing as Conor took a second to not come right there in his pants like a teenager. They were gonna do this right.  
“Bedroom,” he mumbled, gazing at Eamon’s bright red lips. “Bedroom, bedroom, bedroom.” He took Eamon’s hand (God, holding hands was awesome, definitely a new favorite) and led him up the steep staircase to his room, practically dragging a giggling Eamon behind him.  
As soon as the door shut behind them, the air got thick and heavy with nostalgia and what-could-have-beens. Eamon looked around and smiled,  
“This is what I wish it could have been. Do you know how many times we were sitting on your floor or mine and I forgot what we were doing before I was so caught up in thinking about just reaching over and kissing you?” Conor blushed, had he really?  
“How many?”  
“An unhealthy and embarrassing number, that’s how many,” Conor grinned stupidly and tucked Eamon’s hair behind his ear.  
“God, I love you,” Eamon’s face split into a smile that radiated sunshine,  
“I love you more,” Conor laughed and shook his head; an argument for another time.  
Conor kissed Eamon again and it still stole the breath out of his lungs, he figured it might never stop doing that and he was so okay with that. Eamon pushed his jacket off of his shoulders and janking at his tie.  
“Fuck,” he said through teeth, desperately trying to get it off,  
“Mum tied it,” Conor said breathily and Eamon paused, looking up at him with an eyebrow raised,  
“I love you,” Conor laughed and took the tie from his hands, practically ripping it off his head and went to work on Eamon’s button down, struggling through shaky fingers to get the buttons undone. Finally they were both shirtless and Eamon was pantless as Eamon backed them against Conor’s bed-frame, still working on his dress pants. When they were all free of their over-clothing (“that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard someone call clothes,” Eamon had told him once a lifetime ago) they crashed back onto the bed, Conor dragging Eamon up to kiss him ferociously. Eamon’s hand slipped and he fell forwards, their hips pressing together and both of them moaned, the friction of pelvis on pelvis utterly incredible. Eamon stayed like that for a moment, panting into Conor’s neck, his chest rising and falling rapidly before settling between Conor’s thighs and dragging his hips against Conor’s (who gasped and swore, hands clenching and unclenching).   
“Are you- fuck!- are you sure about this?” Eamon gasped, his hands dangerously low on Conor’s hips. Conor nodded rapidly,  
“Yeah, yes, of course,” he gasped arching into Eamon. Eamon nodded and pulled on the elastic of Conor’s boxers, tossing them to the side before shedding his own.  
Here’s the thing. Skin against skin is a feeling that cannot really be put into words or song lyrics. It’s not something that Conor could quite explain, mostly because his brain just kind of stopped working when Eamon they finally touched, full body on full body. It was like fireworks, but better. Like jumping into a pool on the first day of summer but even more so. It was terrifying and electrifying. It was beautiful and breathtaking but the most solid, real thing he’d ever experienced.   
Conor lifted his arms, and wrapped him around Eamon’s shoulders, dragging him back down to kiss him again. Conor hiked a leg up onto Eamon’s hip and gasped at the change of angle. Eamon snuck a hand between them, taking both of them in his hand, moving them together in a tight fist. Conor cursed and threw his head back against the sheets. Eamon latched onto his neck, sucking marks onto his pale skin, one on his jaw, two on his neck and nipping at his collar bones. He would definitely be wearing a turtleneck tomorrow.  
His legs were shaking and his hips snapped forward on their own accord. He bit his lip and bit hard enough to taste blood. Nothing had ever been this good. He heard himself chanting Eamon’s name over and over again in a hushed and desperate manner, craning for the release that was building in his stomach.  
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Eamon whispered into his ear, nipping at his earlobe. “I have always loved you, Conor Lawlor.”

They were lying together, Eamon’s head on Conor’s chest, their hands intertwined across the white sheets. Conor’s chest was still flushed red and Eamon’s breathing was just starting to even out.  
“Come back to London with me,” Conor said after a while, his heart stuttering, afraid to hear Eamon’s response.  
“And the cafe?”  
“Bring it with you. There’s an open shop on my street,” he felt Eamon smile and kiss his chest. Conor’s heart fluttered.  
“Alright, but we’re not running away this time. We’ll move properly. Get shipping and all of that. Okay?” Conor grinned and felt like he could fly.   
“Better than okay,”  
“Good.”


	6. VI

Three years had passed.  
Conor and Eamon were living in London, Conor was still producing music, touring and releasing albums. Eamon always came with him on tour and always co-wrote his music. He didn’t drink but he still smoked every now and again.  
Eamon was working on a music degree and managing his own cafe and book shop. Business was great, he was to graduate in a year.  
Conor still had his moments where he would doubt it all and have really rough days. But Eamon was always there with him, writing music with him until the early hours and until his tears were dried. They had a nice flat, a nice couch and nice floors. It always smelled of laundry detergent and Eamon (but Eamon swore it always smelled like Conor). They watched BBC documentaries on the weekends and went to fancy dinners every Friday. Eamon taught Conor how to cook and bake. They traveled home often to visit their family. Saorise had taken a profound liking to Eamon, more so than even Conor who she claimed was her favorite. Brendan was still pissed about that bit.   
It couldn’t have been better.

One chilly September morning, Conor was on his way home from the jewelers with a small velvet box in his pocket. He had his hands stuffed into his overcoat and his head up looking at the overcast sky. He had a bit of a bounce in his step and a smile on his face.  
“Cosmo?” Said a woman taking off her sunglasses. Conor’s head turned and widened.   
“Raphina? What the hell are you doing here?”  
“Coffee?” She asked pursing her lips. Conor furrowed his brow and nodded, following her into the coffee shop she had just came out of.

Raphina had gone to America to try her hand at modeling. Instead, she got a part in a film. Then another. And another. Hollywood ate her up and she loved it. She was back in London for a film. She was the lead and it was all of the Oscar fodder.  
She was happy.  
“It’s like living in a dream, Cosmo,” she breathed smiling at nothing in particular. He had nodded, listening to her stories.  
“Oh! I’ve talked so much! Cosmo, tell me about you!”  
He told her about the good parts. He had fallen in love. He had gone home and made amends. He was living again. She looked almost sad.  
“Who are you with?” She asked quietly after a moment. He hesitated,  
“Well, er, it’s Eamon,” she blinked, rapidly.  
“Eamon, like rabbit-boy, guitarist?” He nodded and she began to smile, “Oh, well, er. Conor that’s lovely, I’m happy for you.” She smiled a bit and he smiled back. Talking about Eamon was quite posibly his favorite passtime next to being around Eamon.  
“I’m going to ask him to marry me soon. Not by law just…. Between us.” She grinned and offered all of her congratulations.   
“Perhaps the three of us could get lunch sometime? Me, you and Eamon?” He nodded. She reached out to take his hand across the table. He looked at it for a moment.  
“Raphina, I’m really happy for you. I am. But I need to go,”  
“No, silly, not right now, some other time,”  
He shook his head, “No, I don’t think so. I…. I’ve moved on from that part of my life and I need to keep it that way. It’s dangerous to play in the past. It was good to see you, for closure and to know that you made it. I’m happy for you, but it’s time for me to go.” She nodded and retracted her hand. Conor stood and held out a hand to help her stand.  
“It was lovely seeing you again, Raphina. I wish you every happiness.” She nodded sadly and Conor felt a pang of sadness himself. Not for the love he lost but for the time they had spent hurting each other. He had forgiven her long ago, he had even recognized his own faults in the situation. Neither of them had been perfect but they had been children.   
Raphina hugged him tightly, “I’ve missed you, Cosmo,” he nodded. “Now I’ll miss you again, I suppose.” He chuckled.  
“Yes, I’m sorry about that,” and he was.  
“No, don’t be, I understand. I do. I wish you luck Conor Cosmo. Keep making music. Just between me and you? Sing Street Remastered was my favorite album.” She smiled and touched his shoulder. “Have a fantastic life, Conor,”  
“You as well, Raphina.” She left, holding her arms above her head and jogging out to the car that had been waiting for her in the rain.   
Conor smiled and walked home slowly in the rain his heart lighter and the box in his pocket carrying the promise of wonderful things to come.

**Author's Note:**

> :-) thanks for readin !!!


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